


Erlebnisse

by Nyanoka



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, F/M, First Kiss, Flower Symbolism, Half-Sibling Incest, Incest, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23437276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: On the day before Mercedes leaves, Emile makes a request.
Relationships: Jeritza von Hrym/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	Erlebnisse

**Author's Note:**

> Ah...here I am with a Jeritza/Mercedes fic. I don't know why I'm so fond of it, but I assume it's for the almost "Greek tragedy"-esque nature of it. As an aside, this was written with the idea that that this is a Blue Lions route timeline, so RIP Jeritza.
> 
> I also apologize for the stiltedness of this piece. I am rather worn out from my last one creativity-wise.
> 
> I also went in with a challenge to myself to keep it below 1000 words. I failed, but at least, it isn't 4k+ words like I'm prone to.

Humming their jaunty tune, the bushy-bodied bees buzz, flitting between the flowers as easily as any bird in flight. From the curling white gardenias to the dainty irises—dark petals intertwined with their neighbors and akin to a paramour’s grasp—to the red-garbed roses standing guard besides the swaying hibiscuses, their round, yellowed bodies flutter to and fro, rising and falling with each beat of their tiny, delicate wings.

Perhaps some would find them annoying with their incessant, niggling song, but Mercedes merely saw them as fellow companions, fellow workers of the greenhouse to whom she could sing along with.

She isn’t quite in tune nor is it some well-rehearsed melody—it’s rather the opposite really, with syllables half-formed, half-changed, and mercurial—but she enjoys it well enough as do the bees.

Or, at the very least, she hears no complaints from them, only the lively thrum of activity and near-nonsensical buzzing.

With both hands on the carrying handle and the balls of her feet digging into the ground, Mercedes heaves the watering can upward. It isn’t a particularly ornate thing—more of the opposite really what with its plain iron body and practical design—but she isn’t especially physically inclined.

According to her mother, her talents lied elsewhere—in spells and magic rather than the sword or lance.

Carefully and with some effort, Mercedes tips the can forward and over the flowers, just enough for a steady stream rather than a rushing torrent. She doesn’t want to drown them—plunge them into misguidedly helpful misfortune—but she doesn’t want them to perish of thirst either.

It is a simple motion, but it is one of balance—of finesse.

After a few moments, she tilts the can upward again, stilling the flow from the spout and the rose, before setting it back down.

It isn’t a particularly necessary job—the servants are responsible for the greenhouse’s upkeep—nor is it one she personally receives praise for, but it is something she enjoys, nonetheless.

It is in the bloom of life, in the steady furling of the stem as it grows. an almost-act of kneeling, and in the formation of the petals and then finally, the unwinding, straightening, of the plant.

 _There is a certain beauty to it_ , Mercedes finds, _an almost-reflection and microcosm of existence_.

A creak of the greenhouse’s door disturbs her thoughts, and turning around, she expects to find one of the servants. Her stepfather isn’t one to meander around the greenhouse or the gardens, and her mother is simply too busy managing the estate’s affairs for unnecessary romps and trips.

Perhaps it would be Elizabeth or Justine or Walton even—they often came by to check up on her during these hours—but instead, she finds Emile, shuffling and uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Emile!” she calls, voice tinged with curiosity. Much like their father and mother, Emile rarely visits the greenhouse. She isn’t quite sure why—he doesn’t hate the buzzing bees or the teasing pollen as their father does nor is his schedule busy enough to warrant his sparsity—but she doesn’t ask.

They’ve never lied to each other, and she isn’t one to push on a matter as simple, as menial, as this.

 _He would tell her with time_ , she thinks, _he always does_.

Another shuffle of the feet, but Emile doesn’t move or respond to her call. Instead, he merely stands there, at the doorway of the greenhouse and with his right hand still upon the wooden door. She couldn’t quite see his other hand, not with how he hides it behind his back.

“Emile?” she calls again.

He still doesn’t reply, but at the very least, he moves this time, door swinging shut behind him with a thump. It is an almost-solemn affair—unfit for their familial intimacy and for the greenhouse itself—but Mercedes doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, she waits for Emile, for him to enter and for his footsteps to take him before her.

“Mercedes,” he says before stopping.

He’s a bit taller today, she notes, though still nowhere near her own height.

“I”—he pauses again—“you’re leaving tomorrow with Mother.”

She doesn’t quite understand the somberness of his voice—it is only a trip to the capital after all—but she doesn’t comment on that either. Emile has always been odd when it came to certain matters, peculiar in a way that is distinctly him: worrisome to an almost-neurotic degree, esoteric toward the simplest of opinions and matters, yet wholly caring and kind.

Really, she should be the one fretting over him. She is his elder sibling after all, not he to her.

I am”—Mercedes nods—“we’ll only be gone for three weeks if everything goes well.”

Another pause from Emile before he shuffles again, left hand still hidden behind his back.

“Yes,” he says. “Three weeks.”

It isn’t the most intelligent or creative of conversations, but she appreciates it, nonetheless.

It is Emile after all and that is enough.

Silence descends upon them, disturbed only by the hymn of the flitting bees, bodies frantic in their work. Like miniature comets, they streak between the petals and the stems—yellow upon reds and blues and purples and darting between the shades of verdant green.

Emile is the one to break it first, not with his words but with action.

His motions are jerky, timid and so very unlike his regular self, as he thrusts out his hand, the one that had been hidden behind his back.

Mercedes had expected something else, a book perhaps or even a training knife—Emile always did like his weapons, and he worries—but not the simple flower in his hand.

Bright yellow, petals wilting or missing, and green stem frayed from Emile’s grip, it is a daffodil, or the remnants of one rather. She doesn’t quite know where he had obtained it—House Bartels doesn’t grow that particular breed, too simple, too common according to their father—but she doesn’t ask.

Instead, she only speaks, entirely sincere despite the content of her words.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, taking it carefully from Emile’s hand even as his fingers tremble, sweating. It isn’t a lie, not at all—not in her words, not in her bearing, and certainly not in the privacy of her own thoughts.

He doesn’t reply, but she sees the words in his eyes, in the way they shift elsewhere, anywhere else but to her face.

She doesn’t urge him forward, rush him to speak before he is ready.

There is no need for that particular sort of haste.

Today, they’re alone together in the greenhouse, and they have time.

She has time. She would always have time for dear Emile.

Instead, she merely tucks his gift behind her ear before moving, pass the watering can and to the flowers. Bending to her knees, she gently picks a rose—one of the vibrant red ones, scarlet as the evening sun—before standing once more.

Moving back to Emile, she reaches over and tucks it behind his ear, brushing away strands of pale-yellow hair as she does.

They’re matching now—she in her wilting yellow and he in his lively red.

As if under a spell, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move as she does. Instead, he only tenses, more gloomy and quiet and more akin to a full-grown man than to the kind boy—to the younger brother—she knows.

 _They shouldn’t be this somber with each other_ , she thinks.

But still, she tucks the flower behind his ear—fixing his hair as she does—and she waits for him.

Finally, after a few moments, he speaks, stilted and almost stuttering.

“I”—he pauses again, truly unlike himself—"I would like to ask for a kiss, like the ones we had when we were younger.”

How odd, she finds it. It isn’t in the contents of the request but in his manner of asking—too stilted, too nervous, and overly, unnecessary guilty.

 _There is no crime in affection_ , she thinks and so, she moves, taking his hands in hers before pressing her lips to his. It’s chaste, closemouthed, and quick, but still, Emile shakes, hands sweating and wetting hers.

She moves back though she doesn’t let go of his hands. They’re warm in hers, less dirty than her own as well. He hasn’t been working in the dirt, in the gardens or the greenhouse.

He doesn’t withdraw them even as his eyes dart elsewhere, and his face flushes—some secret perhaps or merely a consequence of the weather.

She doesn’t push. She never does. They’re siblings, and they would always tell each other when they were ready. They have time today, and if they didn’t, there are always the letters—childish script and all—and the time they would have together after she returns from the capital.

They have time.

So, she doesn’t wheedle him—pressing into matters he isn’t ready to share. Instead, she merely makes her own request just as he has.

“Can you help me in the greenhouse today?” she asks amidst the buzzing of bees.

Emile doesn’t reply. He only nods.

Today in the greenhouse, they are alone together—wilting yellow and lively red.

**Author's Note:**

> A single daffodil is supposed to symbolize impending misfortune unlike a bouquet of them. I also didn't keep up with the flowers and seasons in this one since it's an entirely different world than the real world, so I have some leeway in what appears in that greenhouse.
> 
> As a side note, why does Mercedes have so much trouble lifting a water can? It's one of those huge ones, it's made of metal and fully filled, and her strength growth kinda sucks. She's also ten, so it's not like she's fully grown either.
> 
> As a final note, I do think the voice is too serious for their ages, but it's intentional and noted. More of a play on who they are now and who they will become.
> 
> Themes: Time, regret, and first love


End file.
